Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Will you, witch? He doesn’t actually ask, but his eyes are beaming that question.
“Don’t worry. I’m nothing but honest,” I say, holding a hand up like I’m being sworn in.
“Honest? Shit,” he mutters. “Just sit tight and we’ll figure this out.”
I raise a brow as he waits impatiently, trying to keep my eyes on his face.
Ugh.
Maybe someday I’ll appreciate the irony of my would-be axe murderer suddenly being afraid of me.
I don’t have my review written yet, but I meant every word.
Some would say I’m brutally honest.
And yeah, you can bet every penny that being scared out of my skin by a walking sex statue is going in my feedback no matter what he does.
This place is so beautiful. When I arrived, I couldn’t fathom why it had such mediocre reviews.
Now, I’m starting to understand.
Staffing issues.
His people can’t handle basic procedures like booking.
Not a good sign.
No glorious ocean views and drinks so smooth you can’t taste the liquor make up for a heart attack in the middle of the night.
“You’re sure about the food? We have these coconut-macadamia nut muffins on our breakfast menu everybody raves about. If I call the kitchen, I bet I can score you a couple out of the first batch this morning.”
Muffins? He’s trying to buy me off with sweets?
“No thanks.” I try to keep my voice neutral.
As he drums his thick fingers impatiently against the desk, waiting too long for someone to pick up, I snicker.
“You’re still laughing?” he whispers, his eyes dark and glassy. “Never mind. I’m glad you find this so funny.”
Oh, Mr. Grumpmuffin, you have no idea.
2
Be My Guest (Brock)
Fuck, fuck, also fuck.
I haven’t been off the damn plane for an hour and I already have an irate reviewer on my hands. One more pissed off influencer in the legion torpedoing my crown jewel resorts.
What kind of review will finding the goddamned CEO of the entire company naked in your shower cause?
I resist the urge to put my fist through the wall, imagining the carnage.
It won’t take ten seconds to go viral, and that’s all I—or Winthrope Resorts—needs right now.
I’ve got to take care of this shit.
I still have the phone pressed to my ear, and there’s still no answer after a dozen rings. Another reason for our lackluster reviews, I guess.
Finally, there’s a click and someone picks up.
“Thanks for calling Winthrope Lanai. This is Shelly. How may I help you?”
Wake the fuck up, Shelly, I think, wondering if the night crew has any coffee on hand.
Her voice is so monotone it sounds like she’s been napping.
“Are you tired, Shelly?” I clip.
“Huh? Well, it’s three a.m. and I—”
A groan slips out of me.
You never tell a guest you’re exhausted on the job.
What kind of train wreck am I running?
“How can I help you?” Shelly asks again.
“Shelly, this is Brock.” I emphasize my name so she doesn’t ask Brock who. The last thing I need is for this influencer to find out how far up the food chain I really am. “There’s been a serious mistake. Someone overbooked the presidential suite. I need to know who made my reservation and the reservation for—” Damn. I don’t know her name.
That may be a first.
Usually, a girl as pretty as her knows exactly who I am before she sees my package.
Shit.
I look over to the chair, where my little intruder has gone from bright red to pale. I hate that my gaze lingers.
She’s all long legs and shy curves, barely concealed behind her skimpy pj’s. Rumpled blond bed hair spills down her shoulders, and her starlit green eyes only meet mine when she thinks I’m not looking.
She chews her plump lip nervously—and it does nothing to calm these devilish, intrusive thoughts I’m having.
In another life, I’d be having a very different night, alone in a room with a woman like this.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Piper,” she says.
Great. Of course she’s named after the guy in that fairy tale who steals all the kids with his magic flute and marches them away.
“Piper what?”
“Renee,” she whispers.
I’m not about to make the porn-star-name joke that springs to mind. It certainly won’t help anything now.
And I watch her reach for the bed on her good foot, pulling off the closest blanket and throwing it over her bare legs.
Too bad. If we weren’t in crisis mode, I wouldn’t mind seeing her lounge around in those little pink panties longer.
“Shelly, I need to know who made my reservation and the reservation for Miss Piper Renee. I also need a new room ASAP because there’s an existing guest in the presidential suite this weekend,” I say, glancing at her foot again.
In the light, the cut looks small, but it’s still oozing blood. She really should have a bandage and an alcohol wipe.
“And please send up a first aid kit for Miss Renee, pronto.”